


Tailor, Know Thyself

by AuroraNova



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, Star Trek: Just in Time Fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28757169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNova/pseuds/AuroraNova
Summary: The Prophets have a plan to ease a certain exile's suffering.On the Bajoran Day of Knowledge, Garak receives a vision he'd rather not.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 41
Kudos: 133
Collections: Star Trek: Just in Time Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my 100th DS9 work on AO3!

Garak was not one to let minor unpleasantries derail him from his purpose. Therefore, when he noticed his hands started to itch, he compartmentalized the feeling away and went right on working with the dreadful Cheltian wool he’d been commissioned to turn into a suit. Business was slow since he’d reopened, a consequence of his six-month absence and of Starfleet’s disapproval of his quadrant-saving methods. He could not afford to lose a customer over a trifling inconvenience.

After an hour he had to admit to himself that the rash was a mildly troubling development.

Half an hour after that, he looked at the welts breaking out on his palms and decided perhaps it would be wiser to visit the infirmary. He might be able to enjoy few moments of rousing conversation with Dr. Bashir, which was infinitely preferable to a lecture on taking better care of himself and the importance of asking for medical help when needed. Garak had a lunch scheduled with the doctor for the following day, and such a lecture was surely in his future if he showed up with his hands in this state.

Happily, the infirmary was devoid of other patients. He had no interest in seeing one of the nurses. Not because they were Bajoran – they were really quite professional – but because he was not in the habit of trusting just anyone with tools and medications meant to alter his body, and in any case, he wanted conversation nearly as much as for his hands to stop itching. Professional though they may have been, none of the nurses had ever been inclined to engage him in a non-medical discussion.

“Garak, what brings you here?” asked the doctor, already conduction a visual examination as was his habit.

“An allergy to Cheltian wool, I suspect.” He held out his hands, which Bashir wasted no time scanning with a medical tricorder.

“It’s not life-threatening, but it can’t be comfortable. Let me get the dermal regenerator and a dose of coroxamin to bring your histamine response down. And it should go without saying that you need gloves when working with Cheltian wool in the future.”

Garak did not enjoy wearing gloves while he worked, but he liked itchy welts even less, so he nodded. “I think that would be best. Is it just me, or is traffic on the Promenade unusually light today?”

“Apparently, that’s to be expected on the Day of Knowledge.”

“The Day of Knowledge?” Garak had believed he was familiar with the Bajoran calendar with its roster of festivals and days of religious significance. He did not appreciate having missed one.

“Kira doesn’t think much of the translation,” said Bashir. “Wrist, please.”

Garak held out his wrist for the hypospray. “I’ve never heard of such a celebration.”

“Well, it only happens every hundred and twelve years, when the moons of Bajor are aligned.”

“That’s no excuse for leaving it off the calendar.”

Bashir shook his head in amusement. “You’re just annoyed you didn’t know about it. People prefer to stay home in case they get a vision from the Prophets.”

“I see.”

“Not everyone does. Maybe one in fifty people will, I’m told, if it’s a good year.”

“And these visions are supposed to be educational?” guessed Garak as Bashir ran the dermal regenerator.

“Yes. A vision is supposed to teach a truth about oneself.”

“Not terribly useful, then.” It was very Bajoran. Cardassians would prefer actionable information to be used against one’s enemies.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Bashir.

Introspection was admittedly not one of the doctor’s strengths. Perhaps the wormhole aliens would offer him some suggestions.

Like all Cardassians, Garak used to dismiss the Bajoran Prophets as a foolish superstition. Obviously, he’d revised his opinions in the last several years. There were aliens of some kind who presumably resided in the wormhole and took a special interest in Bajor. This was incontrovertible. He still didn’t see the need to make a religion out of them, and he thought these aliens were poor gods if they allowed the Occupation in the first place, but he kept those thoughts firmly to himself.

In any case, there was no reason to disbelieve that some Bajorans did in fact receive visions. That did not preclude other questions, such as, “If the beings who reside in the wormhole wish to offer insights, why only once every hundred and twelve years?”

“I have a theory,” said Bashir. “I’m sure Vedek Mera would tell you something else, but I think it’s because the Prophets are outside of time as we understand it. They don’t want to overwhelm people with constant visions, and there are practical considerations. I certainly wouldn’t want to schedule a surgery if I might go into a trance halfway through.”

“I would not like to be your patient in such a scenario.”

“So they picked a single point: when the moons of Bajor align. It only lasts a few hours. From their perspective, it could happen all at once throughout history and into the future. I don’t really know how existence works for them. My point is, using the moons confines it.”

“Whatever the esteemed vedek’s opinion, your theory is sensible.” Far more so than most of his theories about literature. Dr. Bashir was a highly intelligent man with an unfortunate tendency to let his sentiment and Federation idealism override practicality. Then again, their lunches would be dreadfully boring if they agreed all the time.

“High praise, coming from you. There. It will take another ten minutes for full relief, but you should already feel better.”

“Yes, thank you, Doctor. Excellent work as always.” He was regrettably efficient about the process.

“I’m happy to help.”

“Until tomorrow, then. I look forward to your thoughts on _Karnak’s Rivulet._ ”

“I have plenty,” said Bashir. “Honestly, Garak, I think the only theme worse than sacrifice for the state is duty to family.”

“Just because humans are content to ignore their familial obligations doesn’t mean the rest of the galaxy agrees.” Or even had the option.

“Yes, well, some of us are happy to be light-years away from our families.”

Garak heard a note of genuine unhappiness and correspondingly took care to tread lightly on the topic. It would not do to distress the doctor out of an enjoyable debate. “You might look at it as a matter of xenoanthropology.”

“Xenosociology, actually.”

It was always a delight when Bashir opted to quibble over Garak’s choice of words. Unfortunately, the opportunity to discuss the finer points of Federation Standard was lost to an engineer who entered the infirmary with two fingers out at an unhealthy angle.

Thus Garak left Bashir to mending broken bones and went back to his cursed Cheltian wool.

He did not accomplish a single stitch more that day.

Instead, he emerged from his shop well after closing time, more shaken than he cared to admit. Either the Prophets agreed with the Cardassian philosophy that knowledge easily gained was easily lost, or they’d adapted their usual methods for his sake.

Once in his quarters he searched the computer for Julian Bashir’s location. He wasn’t supposed to have the ability, but details like that never bothered him, and if Starfleet was so worried about privacy they ought to have upgraded their computer security years ago. The doctor was sharing a table at Quark’s with Commander Dax. 

Well. Garak had indeed learned something about himself, and all things considered, he would have preferred to forgo the experience.


	2. Chapter 2

The Dominion is one of the biggest threats Bajor faces until it ceases to exist. They see that finality, of course, as they see everything else of Bajor. It is inevitable. They do not know what will happen beyond that. They exist with Bajor, from the collision of rocks which forms the planet until it is consumed by the expansion of its dying sun.

If the Dominion is victorious, in far too many possibilities Bajor becomes a dead and barren world long before the sun’s death.

As always, they seek to ensure that salvation is available to Bajor. They do not force anyone to make the correct series of choices. That is not their role, except in the most extreme circumstances. Their role is to provide the options.

This time, the option is a Cardassian whose presence gives the Federation a way to bring the Romulans into the war against the Dominion. It saves Bajor, and indeed the entire galaxy, though they do not concern themselves with the wider galaxy. They are of Bajor.

They trace the possibilities and find he would never willingly remain on the station his people forced the Bajorans to build. And so, he makes an error. They see to that. They do not take pleasure in removing his choice, but he of all people would understand the greater good, if he knew.

He is exiled. The Sisko chooses to work with him to save Bajor.

It is a steep price, for one of his kind and for him in particular, and he pays it again, exiled a second time for assisting the Federation against his own people.

There is a chance for his happiness yet. They see it in the possibilities they prune from existence. In the world they create, he does not attain it, held back until it is too late by fear and repression they cannot understand.

As an apology for what he must suffer for Bajor’s sake, they gift him with the comprehension he needs to find delight and contentment. The decision is his, as they prefer.

He uses the knowledge well.


	3. Chapter 3

Having secured Federation residence, Garak was free to settle anywhere within its borders. A recently settled Tellarite colony looked attractive – as attractive as somewhere not in the Cardassian Union could be, at least, and he would never again return to his homeworld or even its outer territories. This was the cost of freeing Cardassia from Dominion rule, and Garak could not object to the bargain.

On the Tellarite colony he could enjoy an agreeable environment: warm, humid, and not overly bright because the towns were built underneath the canopy of a rain forest. It was everything he could want for his physical comfort. And yet, he did not reserve a seat on the transport going there.

Three years earlier, the Prophets had shown Garak something about himself, and he was not the kind to forget such knowledge. He had not acted on it at the time. That would have been extremely ill-advised. Now the situation was rather different, not least because he was different. He no longer resented the truth he learned. Instead, he embraced it and decided to see where it would lead.

Thus he got off the shuttle on Deep Space Nine and made his way to the infirmary. Dr. Bashir was crouched beside a biobed, by all appearances attempting maintenance on his own. Good. That meant he had time to spare.

“Hello, Doctor.”

Bashir whipped his head up at impressive speed. “Garak!”

“It appears you were right about seeing each other again.”

“Yes,” said Bashir, standing and making his way over to Garak. “I heard about… I’m sorry.”

News traveled fast. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Doctor.” Garak had never understood why humans used the same word to apologize as to express sympathy. He knew they were perfectly capable of sufficient imagination to differentiate, and the failure to do so baffled him.

“Are you staying on DS9?”

“I haven’t decided.” It depended a great deal on the doctor, but Garak was not inclined to admit that just yet. Or possibly ever.

Bashir weighed the response, then asked, “Read any good books lately?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“So have I. Although I doubt you’ll agree that they’re good, if you read them.”

“Why, Doctor, that almost sounds like you’d be pleased if I stayed.”

“Of course I would,” said Bashir with great fondness, and Garak decided he would remain on the station so long as this remained true.

* * *

It was traditional for newly-betrothed Cardassians to exchange secrets. Not secrets of great use, although of course one never knew what value might arise in the future, and indeed that was the entire point of the exercise. No, these tended to be intimate secrets.

Garak had not expected Julian would feel the need to heed this custom, as theirs was hardly a model of traditional Cardassian courtship. Then again, Julian’s capacity to surprise him remained an ongoing source of delight.

He listened while Julian tentatively told him how he’d learned about his genetic enhancements at the age of fifteen.

“…and then I had to get out of the house. I walked to the transport station and took the next group transport without even noting where I’d be going. I ended up in Hyderabad, nearly eight thousand kilometers from home. Without meaning to, I’d landed right in the heart of Khan’s empire. It seemed apparent the universe was trying to tell me something.

“I walked for quite a while, until I came to a museum which advertised a new exhibit on the Eugenics Wars. It was horrible. Halfway through, I was convinced that I needed to turn myself in, or commit suicide to spare everyone the trouble. Not that I wanted to die, you understand,” he rushed to explain, “but I wanted to become a monster even less, a lifetime spent in confinement didn’t sound any better, and, well, I was fifteen.”

If Garak ever had the opportunity to inflict distress on those who caused Julian to think he was so irredeemably evil, he would take it with great pleasure.

“Just when I’d entirely despaired, I saw a display on Suvarna Deshmukh. She was an Augment who’d fought against Khan. It was the first time I’d heard of an Augment who wasn’t a villain.

“It turns out that not all twentieth-century Augments were tyrants. Many of them certainly were, and I’m not saying the fear is unfounded. But not all, and that gave me hope that I wasn’t destined for tyranny.” Suddenly self-conscious, he gave a minute shrug. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

“You would be an abysmal tyrant, my dear. Quite inept at the basic functions of the job description.” This was absolutely true. The closest Julian came to a dictatorial tendency was his insistence that station residents visit the infirmary for their routine physicals – hardly a sign of an impending takeover of the quadrant.

Julian favored him with a soft smile. “Thank you.”

Garak judged that Julian did not wish for further discussion on the topic. While Julian had accepted himself, he still found the subject of his genetic enhancements difficult to speak of, and it said a great deal about his trust in Garak that he voluntarily brought them up for his betrothal secret.

Thus Garak simply moved on. “I don’t believe I’ve told you about my vision from the Prophets.”

“Out of curiosity, do these secrets we’re swapping have to be true?”

Garak supposed it was a fair question. He adjusted the set of his shoulders slightly, a signal that he was being solemn and honest. “If you have reason to believe I am about to lie to you, you would be well-advised to end our betrothal immediately.”

Julian recognized the body language with obvious pleasure. “That serious?”

“Quite.” Whether or not Julian could understand the gravity of betrayal it would be – and he clearly did not – Garak would not disrespect him in such a manner. Occasional admissions of his own subjective truths were required for Julian’s continued happiness in their relationship, and Garak had found it was not as difficult as he’d feared. It helped that Julian took care not to abuse the privilege. (And, too, he understood it to be a privilege in the first place.)

“You know you haven’t told me about this vision.”

“You remember the Day of Knowledge.”

“Yes,” said Julian. “You learned about your dermal allergy to Cheltian Wool.”

“Dreadful material. I’d just returned to it with gloves when the vision started, though I didn’t realize it at first. That only became apparent later. In fact, when I realized that I was caught in a time loop, I first suspected a scientific explanation. Only after Dax ruled it out twice did I conclude it was a vision. There really ought to be some request for consent before entities start interfering with one’s brain, you know. It’s quite rude of them.”

“The Bajorans don’t seem to think so,” said Julian dryly.

“They wouldn’t, would they?”

“So you were in a time loop. How long did it last?”

“I was reliving the same twenty-two hours repeatedly. In total, I watched you die seventeen times.”

Julian froze. “The Prophets showed you my death seventeen times? Why?”

“Because I was not inclined to learn the lesson they wished to impart the first sixteen deaths, I imagine.” With great care to giving every indication of his truthfulness, Garak explained, “Despite my best efforts, you died every time. Until I sacrificed myself to save you.”

For reasons Garak did not ever expect to know, the entities who resided in the wormhole had been invested in his conscious realization that Julian’s life meant more to him than his own. At the time he had been quite content remaining unaware and hadn’t thanked the Prophets for bringing it to his attention. Now, of course, he felt differently.

From a Cardassian perspective, humans were remarkably willing to sacrifice their lives for others. This was not to say Cardassians never did so. Such cases were, however, usually confined within the realm of duty to the state, the expectations of one’s profession, or family.

Julian knew this perfectly well. He had likely further surmised that Garak was even less inclined to give his life to save another than the average Cardassian, and therefore, that the Prophets’ revelation was highly significant.

“Five years ago, Elim, really?”

“Knowledge is one thing. The wisdom to utilize it properly is another.”

Julian huffed at Garak’s slightly self-congratulatory tone but didn’t truly argue the larger point. They’d discussed the matter of timing previously and concluded that an earlier attempt at a romantic relationship would have had abysmal odds at success.

“It sounds like a difficult vision.”

“More like waking up from an unpleasant dream. Mildly unsettling, but you quickly become aware it wasn’t real.”

Julian did not look convinced. “You didn’t want me to leave at lunch the next day.”

Caught out and in an indulgent mood, Garak admitted, “A day or two is quickly, in the scheme of things, wouldn’t you say?”

Julian kissed him soundly, and Garak thought the Prophets knew what they were doing, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started with the idea of a time loop, and ended more with 'the Prophets treat the timeline like a bonsai tree,' in part because I couldn't bring myself to write Julian's death seventeen times. 
> 
> Thanks to ConceptaDecency, StarTravel, and Aidaran for organizing the fest!


End file.
